He rang the bell twice, firmly, and stood back. He glanced at his watch. Twelve twenty-three. Somewhere in the depths of the house he imagined that he heard a click. He was about to ring again when a voice spoke from the other side of the door.
“Who is it? Who’s there?”
The Scottish accent was unmistakable. Billy had come to the right house.
“Open the door,” he said. “This is the police.”
Not a sound from inside. Had McGarry’s heart lurched at the mention of the word “police”? Was Billy’s strategy already beginning to take effect?
At last a key turned in the lock, and the door opened, revealing an old man in a dark-red dressing-gown and leather slippers.
Billy took out his pocketbook and consulted a blank page. “Mr. McGarry?” he said. “Mr. George McGarry?”
“Yes?”
“I’m a police officer. I need to talk to you — in private.”
“I was asleep.”
“I’m afraid this can’t wait.” Billy stepped past him into the hall.
Once the old man had locked the front door again, he opened a door to his immediate left and switched on the light. Billy followed him into a library. Its many shelves were filled with non-fiction, mostly, and works of reference, but there was also evidence of McGarry’s interests and accomplishments: paintings of racehorses and battleships hung on the walls, and the mantelpiece was crowded with sporting trophies — rowing, tennis, golf — all of which McGarry seemed to have won himself. On the sideboard, flanking a glass case that contained a scale model of an ocean liner, were two photographs in silver frames, one of Venetia, the other of a girl who was fuller in the face, and lighter in colouring. This would be Margaret, the sister. Significantly, both pictures had been taken when the girls were much younger.
The old man was surveying Billy from a position just inside the door, the whites of his eyes visible below his pupils so that he appeared to be looking into the air above Billy’s head, or at some judgement that might, at that very minute, be hanging over him. Of the energy and charm that Venetia had alluded to, there was no sign, illness and old age having taken their toll. His face was flushed, and the skin around his mouth and eyes was pouchy, loose, discoloured; he looked like what he was, a man in his early seventies with a bad heart. None of this was entirely unexpected. What Billy hadn’t reckoned on — or even considered — was the family resemblance. When Venetia told him how her father had abused her, he had imagined a deviant, a pervert, someone who stood out from the rest of society, but this old man not only resembled any other old man you might see on the street or in a shop, he also resembled his daughter. He looked like Venetia. This bizarre similarity wrongfooted Billy for a moment, and he found himself wondering why Venetia hardly ever mentioned her mother. In that hotel in the North Pennines, she had described her mother as “delicate,” he remembered, and it occurred to him that Mrs. McGarry must already be dead.
“Well?” the old man said. “What is it?”
The curt tone, a relic of McGarry’s arrogance, gave Billy his ground back.
“Some allegations have been made against you,” he said. “Some very serious allegations.”
“Allegations? What allegations? What are you talking about?”
The old man turned and lowered himself into a nearby chair. He was avoiding eye contact and using too many words, which Billy interpreted as signs of unease, if not of guilt.
“Sexual abuse,” Billy said, “of minors.”
“What? How dare you!”
“We have it on good authority, Mr. McGarry, that you’ve had sex with underage girls. You’ve been interfering with young girls—”
“Don’t use those words in my house.” Rising out of his chair, the old man seemed about to launch himself at Billy; white froth had gathered at the corners of his mouth. “This is my house. You’re not using language like that in here.”
“You never spared a thought for them, did you? You never cared about them. You only ever thought about yourself.”
As always.
“Get out of here,” the old man said.
Billy lowered his voice. “You’re a child-molester, McGarry. You’re a paedophile, a kiddy-fiddler. You’re a nonce.” He could feel all the words lining up now, ready to spill; he was almost smiling at how straightforward it was. “Do you know what happens to people like you in prison? Your life’s a misery from the second you wake up to the second you go to sleep — if you dare to go to sleep, that is. You’ll be praying for sleep, but you won’t want to risk it. Because of what might happen while you’re not looking. Sooner or later, everybody in there will find out what you are. The screws will see to that. Do you know what they do to people like you?”
“There aren’t any people like me,” the old man shouted hoarsely.
My God, Billy thought. He must have run through this scene a hundred times, but he had never imagined such defiance. For a moment, the room whirled, a surreal merry-go-round of horses, books, and silver cups. He walked over to the window and parted the curtains. The street was quiet. Hardly any lights on in the houses opposite. Nobody about.
“This is a nice area,” he said, still looking through the window, “but I’m not sure how much longer you’re going to be able to live here.”
He had the eerie feeling that the old man might be about to attack him with a blunt object, and he quickly faced back into the room. Though McGarry’s mouth was twitching and the skin under his eyes had turned a mottled whitish-grey, he was motionless, seeming to hang in the middle of the room, as if suspended, and Billy was reminded briefly of the incident in Weston Point, the wild arcs of the walking stick, the bits of glass showering through the air.
“Everyone’s going to find out what you did,” Billy said, his voice still even, calm, “and when that happens, the past will count for nothing. All this”—and he glanced round at the paintings, the trophies—“all this will turn to shit. You’ll be the scum of the earth from that point on — for ever. Your good name, if you’ve got one, will be dragged through the mud. The newspapers will take care of that.
“Even if you’re proved innocent — which is a verdict I can’t see myself — they’ll never believe it,” and he angled his head towards the bay window behind him, “not out there. The people out there will make your life hell because, for them, there’s nothing worse than somebody like you.” He paused. “No, not hell,” he said. “Much worse than that.”
“You can fuck right off.” McGarry spat the words in his direction. “Fuck off out of here.”
Billy felt an irresistible force propel him across the room until he was so close to the old man that he could smell the wet-hay smell of his breath.
“I don’t think you’ve been listening to me, McGarry,” Billy said through gritted teeth. “I’m going to have you. You’re going to fucking pay.” And he gave the old man a shove in the chest.
McGarry toppled backwards into his armchair. “That’s assault,” he said, but his voice had lost all its power.
“Well,” Billy said, “you should know.”
He was still standing over the old man, but the old man stared right through him. The dark-red dressing-gown had fallen open, revealing a triangle of thin, translucent skin, the white of the breastbone almost visible beneath.
“I don’t feel very well,” the old man said.
Billy left the room. Unlocking the front door, he let himself out. McGarry would never admit his own guilt. He was incapable of that. Still, at least someone had told him the truth…Billy stood under a streetlamp and checked his watch. He had been in the house for just eleven minutes.